


Damn You, Autocorrect!

by catko



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2780837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catko/pseuds/catko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting to know you...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damn You, Autocorrect!

**Author's Note:**

> These are for a challenge at LJ's Game of Cards, to write fic based on posts at http://www.damnyouautocorrect.com/. I had no idea what to do; then I found three that were perfect for a developing Mystrade relationship...

Greg shoved his fingers through his hair and glared at the folder on his desk. Taking a deep breath, he reached instinctively for his mug of cold coffee, and just as he was about to take a no-doubt disgusting swig, was startled by a firm “Ahem!” at the door.

Looking up, blinking his eyes to clear them, he beheld a tall, lean figure, elegantly coiffed, dressed, and shod, holding in immaculate leather gloves two steaming paper cups, with the fragrance of—thank god!—very strong coffee.

He reached up to smooth his hair as he rose, groaning slightly at the stiffness. “Mycroft!” he said, hoping to sound natural, but instead sounding as he was, a tired, fed-up aging copper. “Wasn’t expecting you, what about your conference call?”

Mycroft gave a smile, somewhere in that magic zone between snaky and kindly, and moved toward Greg, set both cups on the desk and lowered himself into a chair. “Hello, Detective Inspector. You summoned me, did you not?” he asked smoothly, as he slowly removed his gloves, one by one, and simultaneously indicating one of the coffee cups.

Greg stood stock still for more than a moment, then, realizing he was staring, shook himself, and dropped into his seat. He reached out for the coffee and took a sip. The gloriousness of hot, well-brewed, high-quality coffee flowed through him. “Ta, ever so,” he sighed gratefully. “For this, and for coming, but me summoning you was more of a joke, really, didn’t expect you to show up. Even though you do know more about this case than I do.” He gestured dismissively at the stack of folders. “Anyway, my phone died right after I sent that text, didn’t see your response. And please. Call me Greg. We don’t need to stand on formality, we’re friends, after all.”

“Ah.” Mycroft set his gloves on the desk next to his coffee cup and reached into his breast pocket. Pulling out a mobile phone, he made a few movements, then, leaning forward further, turned the screen toward Greg.

Greg peered over, puzzled. Upon reading the line of texts, he felt a shockwave of panic. He looked across the desk, aghast. But when he saw the twinkle in Mycroft’s eye, he found himself laughing and laughing.  


2  
Goldfish? Goldfish? Mycroft stared speculatively at the screen of his mobile. Of course it was patently ridiculous for Gregory to be considering doing anything with his hair, his beautiful hair. So could this banter be some form of code? Could he possibly know, had Sherlock mentioned anything about that absurd conversation they’d had, whatever had possessed him, goldfish, of all analogies to use. But if so…could Gregory be somehow hinting, referring to Mycroft’s position on not getting close to anyone, as some kind of-jibe? Perhaps he wants more, and fears Mycroft does not? Or, good lord, he is trying to tell Mycroft that he has no need for a goldfish either?

Mycroft found himself worrying the phone between his hands, uncharacteristically. He forced himself to still, to breathe deeply, and to consider rationally, as he would in any high-tension government negotiation or international crisis. Think, think. What would it be in Gregory’s nature to do?

They’d only been seeing each other for a few weeks, but from what he knew of Gregory, it wasn’t like him to run any kind of complicated word game. Nor psychological game. Certainly not. He felt a wave of relief pass over him.

And yet, that must mean…NO! he can’t be serious about coloring his hair. Thrusting the phone into his pocket, he swept up his coat and umbrella, and headed for the door. This insane idea must be stopped.

3  
Greg pulled his sweatshirt closer and contemplated his phone. It would be a good warm up to check in with Mycroft, but he didn’t want to be a pest. Things had been going so great, so weirdly great between them, and he knew enough about his own feelings, and was a good enough read of others’, that he knew they were both caught in that zone of wanting more but being afraid to get it. He remembered this phase from past relationships, kinda fun, actually, the anxiety and anticipation. But in this case it’d come on fast and hard. Ever since that dumb handjob text had broken the ice, they’d become friends, then sex partners, and now…what? Close enough to think about each other between times? To have that sense of longing? To want more?

Ah, fuck it. He picked up the phone and started to text.  
******  
He was laughing yet again at the string of texts when the phone rang in his hand. Grinning, he answered. “Yeah? Is this the hit man I ordered? Or wait, is that hot man?”

A low murmur flowed into his ear. “You don’t know how right you are, Gregory,” the voice purred. “I propose you meet me at my place and I’ll show you.”

Greg’s eyes lit up as he jumped up to go.


End file.
